A Stone for the Journey

By Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Havah’s Journey trilogy—Please Say Kaddish for Me, From Silt and Ashes, As One Must, One Can—abridged into one illustrated volume with bonus stories.

No one can forget the bravery and perseverance of Havah Cohen Gitterman, the Jewish heroine of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’s captivating family saga. Born in Czarist Russia at the turn of the century, Havah is the only survivor of the pogrom that kills her family. But with Arel, the love of her life, she makes it to America hoping for a second chance. There, Havah bucks tradition by teaching Hebrew and the Torah to girls. She is blessed with a daughter, who is born blind. Given strength by the memories of those who have been lost or left behind, Havah learns to rely on her faith and courage to rise above the prejudice and hate that hide in the shadows of the New World.

This is her story, told in illustrations, short stories, and character profiles of the fictional and historical figures who cross Havah’s path. It is a tribute to the persecuted Eastern European Jews who survived against all odds and lived to inspire future generations.

“This artwork and riveting story imprints the soul! Beholding such extraordinary talent, inspires our lives.” —Bracha Goetz, author of Searching for God in the Garbage

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504077682

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is an author and illustrator. A woman of Jewish descent and the granddaughter of Eastern European immigrants, she has a personal connection to Jewish history, a recurring theme throughout much of her writing. Heavily influenced by the Sholem Aleichem stories, as well as Fiddler on the Roof,her novels Please Say Kaddish for Me, From Silt and Ashes, and As One Must One Can were born of her desire to share the darker side of these beloved tales. A Kansas City native, Wisoff-Fields attended the Kansas City Art Institute, where she studied painting and lithography. She maintains her blog, Addicted to Purple, and is the author of This, That and Sometimes the Other, an anthology of her short stories, which she also illustrated. Her stories have also been featured in several other anthologies, including two editions of Voices. Wisoff-Fields and her husband, Jan, have three sons and now live in Belton, Missouri.

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A Stone for the Journey

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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To Lois Spears,

At a time when I felt awkward and out of place, you stepped in and encouraged me to spread my creative wings.

This book is your legacy.

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IN HER FATHER’S FOOTSTEPS

The Heder teacher’s face turned crimson. He narrowed his eyes and glared at five-year-old Havah as if she were a piglet about to be dumped on his doorstep. Then he clenched his tobacco-stained teeth and spat a brown glob on the doorstep.

Up until this moment, she had been excited to learn to read the Torah, the words that came from Adoshem’s own mouth. Huddled against Papa’s shoulder, she hid her eyes in his coat folds.

You can’t be serious, Rabbi Shimon. She’s a girl.

So, she is. Papa’s arm tightened around her. My daughter’s mind is every whit as keen as her brother Mendel’s.

"To be certain she’s a bright one, and one day she’ll be a most excellent wife and mother. Perhaps she’ll even marry a rabbi herself, but, Rebbe, to come to Heder with boys? It’s not right."

Where does the Torah say it’s wrong for a girl to learn?

"Rabbi Ben Hyrcanus clearly stated in the Talmud that to teach a daughter Torah is tiflut—obscenity. And did he not also say that the words of the Torah should be burned rather than be entrusted to a woman? Rabbi, you of all people should know this."

"As far as I’m concerned, it’s opinion and rubbish! Didn’t the prophet Yo’el write ‘your sons and daughters shall prophecy?’ Miriam and Devorah, were they not judges in Israel?"

You win, Rebbe.

I always do.

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A STONE FOR THE JOURNEY

The rabbi shut his prayer book. May HaShem grant us strength to see beyond our sorrow and may the name of Edith Cohen be blessed.

Eight-year-old Havah Cohen gazed at the newly unveiled headstone. Could my sweet grandmother who taught me to knead Hollah dough and sing blessings really be buried under the grass? Isn’t it hot and dark?

Mama placed a large pebble on the marker.

Havah tugged at Mama’s sleeve. Why do we put rocks on graves when Christians put flowers on them?

Kneeling, Mama wrapped her arm around Havah’s shoulders. What happens after you pick a flower?

It turns brown and dies.

Can a rock die?

Uh-uh.

A stone is eternal, like your grandmother’s soul. The more stones you see on a person’s grave, the more he or she has been remembered.

Havah opened her clenched fist and dropped a handful of pebbles. I will never forget you, Bubbe.

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CAST FROM HER FATHER’S HOUSE

Gunshots and screaming woke sixteen-year-old Havah Cohen from a sound and dreamless sleep. She ran to her window. Flames shot through the roof of the synagogue. Dense clouds of black smoke poured through the windows as men with shovels and rocks smashed the stained glass. By moonlight, she could see her older brother lying beside the road in a bloodstained night shirt. Her other brother, a few feet away, lay face down.

Papa! she screamed when she saw him run from the inferno clutching the sacred scrolls. Before she could utter another word, her bedroom door crashed open. A strange man grabbed her around the waist and a rough hand covered her mouth. She struggled to free herself. He pushed her down on the bed, his body pressing against hers. Paralyzed with fear and repulsed by the odor of liquor, she choked and gasped for breath.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother creep through the doorway and inch toward the bed with a wooden rolling pin high over her head. She slammed it down on the back of the man’s head. With a sudden jerk and a grunt, he released Havah, rolled off her, and fell to the floor unconscious.

She sat up, clutching a pillow, and stared down at him. Blood pooled under his head and seeped into the cracks between the floor boards. This has to be a dream. In the morning, Papa will wink at her over breakfast and assure her it had all been a horrendous nightmare.

Her mother yanked her hand, dragged her from the bed, and held her for a moment; her tears hot on Havah’s neck.

Taking Havah’s face between her hands, Mama kissed her forehead. Hurry, Havah. May the God of Israel go with you.

But Mama—

Seizing Havah’s arm, her mother dragged her to the back door of the house and shoved her out. No arguing! Go! Whatever you do, don’t look back!

Heart thumping, Havah ran. Thick smoke stung her eyes and burned her throat. Ignoring Mama’s charge, she stopped and turned. The blazing synagogue crumbled to the ground.

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ORPHANED

Run, Havah! The sound of her mother’s last scream filled Havah’s head and pounded in rhythm to her footsteps.

Beech trees loomed in the forest ahead; their gnarled roots circled above the ground like dancers at a wedding feast. They whispered somber melodies.

Rocks, frozen grass, and thorns stabbed the soles of her bare feet. There had been no time for shoes, no time to dress.

Who will pray for their souls? Who will remember David, the artist, or Mendel, the poet, or Mama or Papa?

She compelled her heavy mouth to shape the Hebrew prayer—Kaddish—prayer for the dead and prayer for the bereft. ‘Magnified and sanctified is Your great name …’ She detested its beauty.

Her hands, held her over her ears, could not blot out the cries of friends and neighbors, fast becoming memories. ‘… in the world, which you have created …’

Thorns grabbed at her nightgown and she fought to ignore the fire in her lungs. ‘… according to Your will.’

Run!

Brambles ripped into her flesh.

Run!

The muscles of her legs burned.

Don’t stop! Run!

Havah shivered as the wind whipped around and through her. But stronger than the cold was her determination. When she could no longer run, she walked, the heat of the flames scorching her back.

Her tongue stuck to her frozen lips. ‘Let His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.’

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RABBI SHIMON COHEN

Five-year-old Havah flexed her stinging hand. Why did the Almighty make honey bees?

Shimon Cohen’s onyx eyes glistened and his beard tickled her nose. So we don’t forget.

Forget what?

The good things in life are made sweeter by affliction.

He was her teacher, her father, her world.

By the time she turned sixteen, he proclaimed her a scholar equal to any of his Yeshiva students. Someday, maybe not in my lifetime, Havah, women will read Torah in the shul and not have to hide from the narrow minds of men. Perhaps your daughter will be the first woman to become a rabbi.

His voice, low and soothing, still rumbled like distant thunder in her mind.

How could he be dead? It seemed only last night that he had tucked her in as he had every night since she was a child.

She had nodded off reading. He slipped the book from her hands and kissed her forehead.

Filled with a sudden sense of dread, she threw her arms around his neck. I love you so much it hurts, Papa!

What’s wrong, Havaleh?

What if I never have another chance to tell you? It would sorrow all my days!

He chuckled and snuffed the lamp on her bed table. Sleep now so that splendid head of yours will be sharp in the morning.

Hours later, Cossacks shot him down, clutching the sacred Torah scrolls before the flaming synagogue.

Rain pelted the window over her new bed. I’m a stranger in a strange land. Scooching under the covers, she buried her head in the down pillow. Will life ever be sweet again? I love you so much it hurts, Papa.

The wind whispered, I know.

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MIRIAM COHEN

While Papa was the High Priest of their home, Miriam Cohen was the balabusteh, the homemaker. There was no doubt in Havah’s mind that he would have been helpless without her. Havah lost count of the times he had misplaced something and grew frantic searching for it. In her calm, gentle way, Mama never failed to find the missing article.

Papa would draw her to his chest and recite in a resonant voice. "‘Who can find an eshet khayeel, a woman of virtue and strength? She’s worth more than rubies.’"

As a child, Havah looked forward to her mother’s flaky fried pastries loaded with raisins and crispy potato latkes. Even though Hanukkah only lasted eight days, Mama started cooking her special treats several days before. She loved celebrations and said a mere week was not long enough.

The year Havah turned sixteen, Mama brought home potatoes from the market a month before Hanukkah. Havah, who hated grating them, groaned, We’ve never started this early.

Why wait, Havaleh? Mama cupped her hand around Havah’s cheek and pinched her chin. Who knows? This may be the last time we celebrate.

There was an urgent plea in the way Mama said last time that chilled Havah as she grated potatoes for her new family two months later. Sometimes Mama